some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
This boy does not belong here. He moves through the crowds as if they were a herd of goats, unpredictable, loud, smelly. The boy moves with a grace only the wilds of nature could breathe into his bones. The boy slinks, leonine and at once also walks like a stag amidst a crowd of fools. Heis not sure what to be here, within the thick of the city. Should he be afraid? Should he be calm? Eyes stray to the boy for even passersby know that he does not belong here. If they are not drawn to the way he moves - like a wild, elven thing - then maybe it is the dirt upon his skin, or the tangle of vines and spring flowers that hang from his antlers, or maybe it is the grazes upon his limbs. Leonidas smells of wild flower meadows, starlight and damp woodland, they smell of strange strong scents and they clang and clatter with jewels as they move.
His lips curl with distaste. Vendors stand at stalls, crying out to sell their wares. The boy wanders, drifting like a leaf loosed from a tree, caught upon a whimsical wind that cannot decide where to lay it. He floats between stalls looking at foods that make his stomach rumble and jewels that gleam ugly and ostentatiously up at him. His lip curls and he goes to leave, except for her. She is a flash of silver, like a fish within water. He looks and expects her to be lost to the tide of the crowd. But she isn’t. She stands, laughing.
Leonidas falls still, statuesque as a carving of gold and copper-hue marble. He watches her, enchanted by her laughter, struck by the way parts of her blink in and out of sight. They had not found a healer and still they both straddle the land of the living and the land beyond. Passersby brush past him, some through him as his body shifts, still struggling to be real. It has been days since he has eaten properly since he could not hold anything long enough to eat. For so long he felt nothing at all. Not the breeze in the air, nor the brush of a flower across his knee. But now he feels, sometimes. It comes and goes like dreams. Life tingling upon his skin, reminding him of what it means to exist. Had she felt it too?
Leonidas moves toward her, his eyes finally lifting from the pale, silvery dance of her skin and up to the boy she laughs with. His nose draws in toward his chest, his muscled neck arching. Something twists, hot and raw within his stomach. It makes him impulsive, angry. The wild-wood boy turns away from them, but his eyes drift back bright and curious, unable to draw themselves away from her for long.
He looks over stalls as he drifts along in the crowd, still not fitting, still blinking in and out of sight, ghostly, strange. A necklace catches his eye. It is unlike any he has seen - all of them had been bright heavy and gaudy. Yet this, oh, this one reminds him of the woods. Its chain is silver links carved like fine stems with delicate leaves branching out. They reach down, down toward a point where more silver leaves gather in, turning into teal green leaves that cradle a deep pink gem, pretty as a flower. It belonged in a meadow, not here, lying upon a table. Without a thought the boy lifted the piece from the table. It is mere chance the vendor was looking the other way. Slowly Leonidas meanders on, lost in the beauty of the necklace, until he looks up, at Aspara and the boy she laughs with.
That strange feeling comes back, hot and unwelcome. It pierces deep, makes his skin itch. He moves toward them, suddenly wanting her attention, suddenly knowing why he picked this necklace. Suddenly bold, suddenly on edge, he steps up beside Aspara, pressing his muzzle to the curve of her neck. He inhales her, she smells of smoke, of strange, city things. He huffs and pulls away, casting her a sideways glance. She might be pretty but her smell was a hard thing to tolerate. Proudly he holds out the necklace to her. He likes the way it looks, framed against her skin. Suddenly curious, suddenly feeling a little strange again, he casts a glance to the boy beside her.
Leonidas dares not open his mouth, not at the moment, not when his voice was doing strange things. Sometimes painfully low and only occasionally normal. He didn't like to speak, not since girls had laughed at him on his playdate with Nicnevin. Instead, he fixes the boy with a stern look before turning back to Aspara, hoping she likes the necklace he chose for her.
Aubin was good at making me laugh, and I daresay he enjoyed it. And I enjoyed spending time with someone who didn't understand me at all- I could be anyone with him, practice playing different roles and he wouldn't know the difference. I don’t remember what we had been talking about. What we had been doing, where we had been going. None of it meant anything. It was all just time, wasted; youth, spent carelessly-- I don’t think there was any other way. If there was, I would have found it. I’m certain of this.
It was all a blur in my memories, the colors drained from the scene. Until the antlered pegasus stepped in, nimble and flighty as a stag, and pressed close to me. I stepped back, pure instinct, startled. It took me a second, but I would recognize those antlers anywhere. “Leonidas?!” I was shocked and, I admit, delighted to see him. But I noticed the way he huffed in distaste and stepped away after touching me, and I felt my joy instantly turn sour. I drew my head up proudly, and a small frown furrowed at my brow. What, was I not good enough? Did I not smell as sweet, feel as soft as he expected? Was I supposed to drop everything and swoon over the necklace he brutishly shoved at me? My temper flared.
Aubin cleared his throat. The sound brought me down from my anger and back into my body. Without my rage I felt exposed. I found myself overwhelmingly self-conscious to be standing there between those two boys. I didn’t know if it was better or worse how wildly different they were. To my left was Aubin the page, clean-cut and charming and utterly confident- the kind of boy fate leans into, with a smile that warmed me far more than I cared to admit. A city boy. To my right was Leo, slinking and skittish as a wild animal. He smelled of spring, loamy and lush, and something else, familiar yet not-- I imagined it was the scent of clouds. My skin was warm, nearly burning, where he had briefly pressed his muzzle to my neck.
Beneath my lashes, my eyes darted furtively from boy to boy. “Um, I’ll catch up with you later Aubin, okay?” I offered the young page an apologetic smile and a feather-light touch to the shoulder. I was not at all comfortable with... dismissing him, and I felt terrible about it, but I knew he would go on this evening to find some other, likely better, company. On the other hand, Leo was so obviously out of place here that I owed him my full attention. Not to mention, there was… we were… It was really good to see him. Really, really good.
Aubin dismissed himself with an amused sound in his throat and a mocking “yes princess,” followed by a deep, highly overdramatic bow that made me roll my eyes with a scoff. I made a shooing motion with my horn and he bounded off with a cheeky smile. (Only later, when I replayed the evening again and again in my mind, it would occur to me that I should have introduced them to each other. They might have even gotten along. But I also, to be quite honest, wanted Leo to myself.)
I looked at Leonidas and couldn’t feel my legs. At the time I attributed this entirely to the ghost-magic, which still flickered in me from time to time. My body would occasionally fade in and out as though I were made of mist, and all sensation would fade with it. It was not something you could ever get used to, not really, but I did my best.
“This is… for me?” I never had much interest in jewelry, but the gesture was strangely moving. And although I was no connoisseur of such trinkets, I could recognize that the necklace was beautiful. I hesitated, then awkwardly secured it around my neck. The delicate pink stone heart of the gift wriggled into my chest as though traumatized, murmuring something I ignored for the moment. I did not linger on the gift, and what it might or might not mean. It was not the first gift a boy had given me, but it was the first one I had worn. I was vaguely aware that if I started thinking about it too much, my thoughts would spiral away out of my control. So I did not let them stay at all. "Thank you," I said finally.
I formed my lips into a small smile that would not betray the wavering beat of my heart. “How are you? How did you find me?” I glanced around us, remembering suddenly where we were. “Do--” do you like my home? I bit off the question and let it die. It was so childish. And he clearly was not at ease here. My eyes did not miss the tension in his shoulders (were they broader than when we met?) rippling up and through his wings, which flicked and fidgeted as though each feather were dancing. I suppose I am grateful that wherever I go, I feel at home. I was always just as much at ease in the forest or plains, city or sea.
I did not like us standing and staring at each other like fools, not one bit. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?” I swept past him, and I intended to lightly brush my shoulder against his but the gesture was far more forceful, like a shove. In my mind it was too late to take it back, to apologize, and all I could do was laugh nervously. “Come on.” I began to lead the way to a quieter section of the market, where one of my favorite vendors sold spiced carrot rolls and barley tea.
Unconsciously I had begun to play with the necklace, with a gentle touch feeling its intricacies and delicate craftsmanship. It struck me that this was an expensive gift. Too expensive. I glanced behind my shoulder at Leonidas and pressed the necklace to my skin, and I reached into my magic. It was like opening a third eye-- or more accurately an ear. As we walked I let the pendant’s story begin to fill my bones with its truth…
some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
Leonidas?!
Even exclaimed his name still sounds nice upon her tongue. He is pleased that she remembered it and said it. He is used to being forgotten, he wants to be forgotten.
But not by Aspara.
Though the way she says his name sends a shiver of delight through him, the boy’s eyes are focussed upon the other boy. Apsara steps back as he steps close. An ear switches to follow her path and the wild-wood boy doubts himself as he crowds into the small space where she and the other boy are stood. Though she draws away from him and settles his anxiety by the way she says his name, none of them are enough to dissuade him from the look he levels upon the other boy.
Leonidas not dare to move any closer to Aspara, not since she moved away from him. But he does make himself taller, broader, more fearsome. He has seen the way the spring stags level against each other, their displays of power, their height, their agility. They use everything to win themselves a female and see off their rival. The forest boy does not dwell on why he wants Aspara to choose him but stands tall against the other boy. Until… until Aspara’s chin tips up and the air prickles with the static of her anger. Already his show was not going to plan.
The vines in his antlers sway as he glances toward her. The boy does too and Leonidas’ ears fall back with displeasure. He does not like the way he looks at her or makes her laugh. She did not sound like that with Leonidas in the wood, that strange and terrible night they shared. Her voice did not ring with delight then, nor sound like the chorus of bells he once heard from the Dusk citadel. That strange, uncomfortable feeling returns with those thoughts. It twists his skin, making him feel upset, angry, desperate. He huffs softly and blinks to Aspara.
Her ivory skin, dappled with silver moonlight, gleams in the sunlight, drawing his eyes. Everything is loud, too loud here. His heart is stuttering in his chest racing with more than the stress of the markets. His eyes find Aspara’s tangling in the blue of her gaze grounding himself in them. She smells of the strange scents here. The woodland is his home, but this is hers.
A flash of delight sears through his body as she dismisses the other boy. Leonidas’ gaze immediately flits to him, his chin tilting in, his nape arching. Vain pride and victory slithers, serpentine through his veins. His mother, if she were still here, might chasten her son for his pride. But she is not and he has had only the wild animals to teach him anything of life.
Aubin leaves with a laugh. The sound does not delight Leonidas as Aspara’s had. It sends a shudder of displeasure coursing through him. The page boy was strange, exhibiting a confidence that unsettled Leonidas. Alone, with Aspara at last, Leo turns to the Denocte girl, watching intently as she fastens the necklace about her slender neck. The jewel blinks bright and beautiful, the silver glittering. Leonidas likes the way it looks upon her, yet the sliver of regret grows that it is not a necklace of wildflowers. She would look more beautiful then and he does not know why but he likes that thought.
Her thank you is small, nearly a whisper against the loud noises of the busy market. He leans in, to catch it, noticing the way her legs disappear. The boy waits, with a strangled breath in case it spreads, in case she turns to nothingness before his eyes. But the rest of her stays corporeal, warm and real. She smiles, despite how her limbs disappear. He too has grown used to how a part of his body will blink gently into non-existence and back, silent and strange.
Leonidas gazes too long at her smile, but he does not know that he does. A frown pulls across his brow, even as her lips fascinate him. She does not smile like she did that night they met in the ghost wood or when she was with the page boy. Does she not like Leonidas as much as Aubin or does not wish to see him today or maybe she does not like the gift? Confused, he draws his chin in towards his chest and wonders what he could say or do to make her smile wider, brighter, more like it had been with Audin, Aubin, whatever.
He had hoped not to speak, his voice acting so strange as it was lately. But she asks him question after question, looking to him for an answer. Carefully, taking a breath he opened his mouth to speak. It comes across normal at first, deeper than she might remember as he murmurs carefully, appearing almost sullen in his attempt to keep his voice level, “I followed you.” Emboldened by his steady voice he continues and that is where it all goes wrong, “I wanted to check you were still real.” His voice breaks, rising an octave before dropping and rising again. A blush blooms across his cheeks and swiftly he looks away, a dark, brooding shadow settling across the gold of his eyes.
Sullenly he shakes his head when she asks if he would like a drink or something to eat and grunts as she shoves past him. He staggers back surprised. Was it his voice? Was she displeased? She laughs again and still it is not like she laughed with Aubin. This time is it small, short, stifled. Frustration blooms in his chest and he surges after her, wondering how to please her. Nimble and light the wild-wood boy moves beside the city girl, his wing brushing against her side. Curious, his gaze tips down, watching her, gauging her reaction as he moves beside her, their bodies gold and silver touching now and again.
Aspara leads him to a quieter corner, filled with the scent of spiced carrots and sweet teas. Though he is used to simpler foods (those that grow upon bushes and trees and from the forest floor) he thinks the smell is sweet and delectable. The queue for the stall extends out into the cobbled street and they stand in it. Warily the feral boy watches as Denocte spills out in light and colour and noise, all around them. He sees the way she rests here, confident and at ease. But above all he sees the way eyes flit to her occasionally, as if recognising her, respecting her. Another part of her fades and he reaches out, running his muzzle down her spine, as if to check she was still hard and soft and warm. “Princess?” He asks her, pausing at her mid-back, his voice low and unbreaking.
Always, my heart longs for what it does not have. Its murmurings, like the trickle of a stream, are most often focused on the distant past or the far future-- each unobtainable for different reasons. It says, take me back. Open the shutters. Let in the light of memory, roll back the curtain of time. It longs, and it yearns, and most of all it remembers.
I remember of that evening, with strange specificity, hearing my own heartbeat, wet and ponderous. The heart’s one-two shuffle is so often compared to a bird- fluttering with livelihood like a hummingbird, or else with graceful pain, like a wounded dove. But to me it’s always been more like a tree. Sometimes still and quiet, leaves gently rustled by the breeze. Other times buffeted by a storm, thrashing to and fro. Most significantly, my heart never, never had the freedom of a bird. Not just my heart but all of me (mind, body, spirit) was subject to time and chance, season and weather. And of course all the places and people in which I laid roots.
Places like the night markets, and people like Aubin and Leonidas.
I had never had boys fighting over me, and it was not something I ever wished for, so I was grateful when one of them left with such grace and no hard feelings. (Still, I admit it gave me a brief, savage glee to see the widely varying expressions cross across Leonidas’ face, one after another, like dancing flames. I immediately felt terribly guilty for this… but later, alone, I reckoned it was not so terrible to enjoy being wanted, and anguish could feel good in its own way.)
I tried not to roll my eyes at Leonidas’ expression as the other boy left. It reminded me of the fat grey pigeons I had seen in the court, bobbing their green and purple necks at each other in some unfathomable display of pride. “I followed you,” he said. “I wanted to check you were still real.” In the moment the sentiment was lost to the cracking of his voice. I smiled then, broader than I had smiled at Aubin, and it took every ounce of self control to keep from gigging. I truly didn’t mean to insult him, or make him self conscious, but there was just something so pure about the jump of his voice from one octave to another.
“I’m real,” I said gently. “It was all real. Do you think we’ll ever be… normal again?” I almost asked if we’d ever be the same again, but I knew the answer to that.
No. No we would not. But anyway it would be unnatural to go back, and not forward. I flowed forever onward to time’s pace. Leonidas, I eventually learned, set a pace of his own-- but it was always forward, never back. We would never be the same.
So we began to walk, although he had shaken his head “no.” It didn’t matter. I didn’t want to just stand there, feeling all hot and cold and jittery-- so jittery! Like there were ants on the inside of my skin. I preferred to be a ghost. The walking made it better, but his eyes did not. He had a very serious gaze, very deep for someone so young. The more it pried at me the tighter I drew myself inward, an oyster safe behind the fortress of its shell.
I was used to eyes, and very good at ignoring them. But still I found myself glancing at him shyly, quick as the darting hands of a thief. I wish it didn’t feel like we had so much history. I wish it didn’t feel like we were already bound, somehow.
I didn’t even know him! But I did. Or I wanted to. Everything was sticking together and coming apart; I wanted to sit with him beneath the cottonwood trees. I wanted to be alone.
I did not move away when he pressed his muzzle to my spine, even if it was too much, too soon. (I must admit, it felt good to feel real.) I just turned my head so my horn was directed at his chest, and I looked at him with oceanic eyes that promised: “if you hurt me, I will kill you.”
Princess was not a nickname I enjoyed, and it was not a title that had ever interested me. It wasn’t until I was much older that I could pick apart why. It all came back to princesses in stories, they ruined it for me-- they were too often the victims, or the prize. There were exceptions, true, particularly in my mother’s stories, but I had never found them inspiring. I suppose they only illustrated to me all the more clearly how pervasive was the damsel in distress.
I obviously had no intention of bending to the stereotype. I also didn’t want to break the mold. I just wanted to be, yet I always found myself defined by one thing or another.
I sighed. “My mom used to be sovereign.” It felt odd to call her mom; at that point in my youth I quite strictly referred to my parents as Eik and Isra, no more or less. “That was a long time ago though.” (In reality it had only been a year or so, but at that age it was a lifetime.)
Finally, I turned my attention to the necklace. It had been pulsing quite insistently at my neck, digging into my skin to catch my attention. I opened my magic- the best comparison I have is opening a heavy door, or a crooked, rusty gate- and let the necklace’s story fill me.
It was a proud thing, I could tell immediately, and this made me smile. It told me of how chains are formed, link by link, with love and skill and the utmost attention to detail. (I would for long after think of necklaces as chains, shackles, and refuse to wear them… but of course this was not the intended moral of the story...)And how the pendant was shaped so very meticulously, its rose-colored stone chosen with care and gently shaped to fit the silver tangle of metal. The final product, the whole something even greater than its parts, loved being on display in the markets. It loved the feel of crushed velvet below, and the way the glimmering firelight danced on its curves. It loved the attention of passersby, the marvel it inspired.
And when it spoke of being taken, it began to shake.
I took a step back from him. “Leonidas, where did you get this? Did you steal it?” I was not very principled, to be honest. I followed the rules that aligned with my personal values, and I disregarded the rest. But one thing I did believe in was that hard work should pay off. Theft was not acceptable unless you stole from another thief, or- and here’s where we enter a grey area- someone who had too much for their own good. And I knew from the necklace’s story that its creator was neither of these, not by a long shot.
I slipped the necklace over my head, angry and embarrassed by the thought of wearing it, although I still clutched it to my chest for that seemed to give it some comfort. I searched the golden eyes of my savage boy for some answer, but I found none. "You... you do know you can't just take things, right??" My voice had softened; I could not really hold against him rules that he did not understand. If anything the fault was as good as mine-- he was only here because of me.
some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
Fat, grey pigeons were loud in trees when wild-wood boys wanted to sleep. They flapped their wings and bustled along branches and poohed and cooed, loud and uncouth. Annoying. Leonidas would be horrified to know how she thinks of them when she looks at him. It would be enough to wound a hormonal boy’s pride.
She smiles at the breaking of his voice and it seems his pride is to be wounded anyway. He snaps his gaze away from her, his chin lifting, his nape arching, his breath leaving in a shy, humiliated huff. He looks back to her though, when she says that she is real (as if to assure himself, as if he needs to see and not just hear it from her lips). He drinks in the silver of her skin, so much like moonlight, so much like that awful silver magic that turned them from real into phantom. He hopes she is more than just liquid moonlight and dappled starlight. His touch affirms it.
Leonidas likes touching her but, oh, when she turns to look at him he falters, unsure whether to draw back or stay with his lips pressed to the curve of her back. Apsara points her spiral horn toward his breast, over his heart. It is a threat that runs alongside that look. Slowly, warily he withdraws his mouth from her unsure when, how, he crossed a boundary. How, the uncouth boy wonders, should he know what touch is allowable and what is not? She has touched him before, but it has always been rough, startling… was that how he should be with her? His head shakes, he does not want to be rough with her like that. It is so startling when she touches him that way - even if it makes his heart startle with joy at their contact.
His antlers lower, slowly, carefully to press upon her horn. He knows the violence of her threat, he can already feel the ache of it within his growing chest. Wary eyes, bright and gold, watch her as a tine touches the curve of her horn. There is no ringing tap this time, like they shared in peril and joy before. This is something deeper, more worrisome even than when the colt came to steal their existence. They are indeed forever different. Leonidas knows he will leave Denocte changed, for better or worse. His horn to hers feels like a vow he does not fully comprehend - how can he when all he knows is new and strange, at once exciting and thrilling and yet terrifying and agonising?
Sovereign. Apsara says of her mother and the wild-wood boy thinks of his uncle and his earliest memories. “Like my uncle.” Leonidas says, nodding understandingly. The boy says nothing of his mother whose past sovereignty he never learned of. He does not know how his blood is deeply woven into Terrastella, how it has been shed many times upon its earth. Even if he did, he would not recognise the ties that bind him there, not when his body, his heart, his soul belong upon a bed of leaves, beneath the ceiling of trees and a sky full of stars. Leonidas would sooner beg this princess into the feral-free woods with him than spend time within a city, beneath a ceiling of stone and upon a bed of cloth.
He does not know how she fights against society and stereotypes. He does not know how she lets the nickname ‘princess’ slide from her like water. Raised on the outside of society, Leonidas has not felt the ways in which is tries to mold everyone within its grasp. But the closer his new friendships draw him to the courts and and their cities, he will begin to feel societies pressure upon him. It will force change upon him like the cliff yields to the sea - slow and yet at once sudden. It begins with Aspara’s whisper, Did you steal it?
The boy looks to her with wide, uncivilised eyes. He sees how she draws back from him, how she takes the necklace off hurriedly with a blush upon her cheeks as if the mere idea of wearing it is awful. Aspara is angry. It blooms lovely across her skin but oh, Leonidas snorts softly, confused by her sudden change in demeanor, confused by the word steal. “No.” He whispers reaching forward wanting her to keep it on, but halted by that wave of anger and embarrassment that ripples from her slender body. The air crackles with it, it skips along his skin like static before a storm. He shivers and stiffens as he straightens, growing taller, braver, bolder, a wild, forest boy staring down a predator with fearless bright eyes.
Then, at once, she softens like the dawn. The purple bruising of her ire upon his skin turns softly, sweetly golden. Leonidas shifts, his lips pressed into a line, his ears fallen flat upon his skull. He could pass for a man in that moment - another of those strange, fleeting moments where childhood slips from him, obscured by blossoming adulthood. But it is just a moment (even though these moments grow ever more frequent, ever longer as time canters him in toward adulthood faster and faster). He turns into a boy again, older and young all at once. Even little children know not to steal, but not adolescent boys who raised themselves beneath the stars and at will picked berries from bushes and fruits from trees and cropped any grasses that found their way beneath his feet. There is no such thing as stealing to boys like Leonidas.
“No?” He asks, his voice belonging to the man he was a moment ago, yet filled with a boy’s confusion. Leonidas knows nothing of how a man toiled over the pretty piece to sell and feed his family. He has no concept of money, he owns not a penny (except that he does, except that his mother was a queen once and earned her wealth across time and space). Leonidas is so very wealthy, but even if he knew he was, he would reject it all for the wilds of Novus and picking berries off twigs.
“Put it back on.” He implores her, suddenly pained with her rejection of his gift. Her sadness, her anger they are like lances into the softer places of him. It hurts and he writhes against the discomfort. “Please.” He remembers what his uncle told him suddenly, about how he should say please and thank you.
You know you can’t just take things...right? “But I want you to have it.” Still that frown is deep and worried and hurt upon his brow. He stands no longer a stag in his kingdom but a fox uneasy in a lair of dogs. The market sounds too busy, too loud, too smelly. She will one day say her heart is not like a butterfly but like a tree, still and then moving, sweeping, rustling, its susurrations whispering through her body like the sound does through the woods. Leonidas has spent a thousand days beneath the trees listening to their whispers, he would know, he would love how her heart sounds. But his own, his own is a brave, stag’s heart. It runs defiant and alert, defensive and bold.
I should have been used to it by then, used to wanting so many things at once that I never reached out to claim any of them. Or, overwhelmed, I did exactly what I did not intend to do. I suddenly remembered that boy, Caspian, with deep, wild, beautiful eyes like the sea. I told him he smelled like fish.
It was wrong again, it was all wrong. Everything I tried to do, the opposite happened. Shoving Leonidas when I meant to be gentle. Wounding his pride when I was only sharing my good mood. Threatening with my horn when I meant to plead. But I did not regret taking the necklace off. I did not want to be seen wearing something stolen, but more importantly I felt ashamed for having ever liked it. For having ever put it around my neck, wore it with shy pride. It was just as good as a collar, a chain.
I thought I liked Leonidas. Actually, I was quite sure of it. But I did not like him enough to be someone I wasn’t. Someone who wore expensive trinkets and pretty things. Someone who wanted to be seen, and once seen admired or envied.
“Put it back on.” My nostrils flared- he took far too long to say please. Even for a wildling boy, it was not okay.
Not unlike the way he slipped from boy to man, I sometimes spoke like a girl, trembling and delicate as the first bloom of spring, and sometimes a woman fully grown. And other times still I spoke like something more. Like a unicorn with salt water in her blood. Like my mother’s magic as it worked to turn a blossom to something solid as diamond. This was one of those times; I stomped a hoof, then drew very still. “I will not.”
I would not let a boy tell me what to do, not even one who ran with me on ghost feet, not even a boy whose fate, I sensed even then, was entwined with mine for better or worse.
My volume and sharp tone drew curious looks from the other horses in line. I did not like drawing attention from strangers-- I cast a withering glare to anyone who dared meet my gaze, then I stepped closer to Leonidas and lowered my voice. “You will take me back to where you found this, and I will give it back.” As annoyed as I was, and angry, I recognized the thrill of excitement to be standing so close to him. He was warm, I could feel the heat in the sparse air between us. It was quite unbearable, the conflicting emotions running through me all electric. I did not know if I wanted to scream at him or kiss him. It was exhilarating, true, but mostly it was exhausting.
I wanted to be past that all and grown up already- I was sure then I would know what I was supposed to feel, and when I was supposed to feel it.
some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
The more he meets unicorn girls, the more they fill his dreams and the more he can hear how his antlers sing with memories of their horns. Some have enchanted him, others have enraged him, yet others he has pledged his life to. But Aspara, she enchants and enrages him and wounds him deeply.
She is disgusted, ashamed and he does not know why. He knows it is the necklace, she seemed to like it at first, she blushed when he put it on. Leonidas thought that was a good sign - meant she wanted the necklace. But now, now she thrusts it back to him and sets her silverblue gaze upon him with the fierceness of a salt-water unicorn. Yet Leonidas is time and ancient magic and he has learned to never kneel to a unicorn.
Apsara refuses him her rejection like the crack of a whip. Her foot digs into the dirt and the boy’s ears fall to his poll, his muscled neck arching as he stands tall, a wall with which to deflect her ire. Her rejection stings, it is like a lash across his cheek. Still Leonidas does not understand. How is he to get her things when he has no money with which to buy them?
“Why not?” Leonidas grouses, softer now, as she steps closer. He sees the way passersby watch them, curious, he sees the way Aspara scowls back. She looks wilder in that moment, brave and irritated. He enjoys it, he realises, enjoys when she grows fierce, even if he does not understand why.
The air between them is warm. His cheeks are warm too as he peers down at her, the tangle of his mane touching hers in the breeze. She commands him, her voice lower yet every word is curt and unyielding. “No,” the wild-wood boy grunts, stubborn his voice the creak of trees in a midnight breeze. Leonidas want so many things in that moment, to see her anger spike, for her just to take his gift because her anger, her hurt is startling, her rejection is hurting him. He wants to take her anger from her. In frustration he looks toward the stall he took the necklace from, then he looks back to Aspara, pretty in her anger, but there is something else there. The way she watches him makes him wish to fight her, to meet her toe to toe. But, oh, there is something else behind her gaze...
So Leonidas reaches down, presses his nose into her neck and sighs, “You are beautiful.” Shy is his tone as the words are whispered against her skin in awe... “I always like looking at the moon over wildflower meadows. You are like the moon and the necklace is like the flowers I have seen.” The boy is softer now, a respite in their stubborn exchange. “It is why I wanted that one for you.” His confessions make him younger, more boyish as he grows quieter.
He looks away trying to ignore the way her silver-blue eyes watch him with a sea’s contempt and something... softer. At the stalls around them he hears the chink of metal, sees how small coins are passed from hand to hand. When he returns his gaze to her, golden and bright, he murmurs with a scowl, “Is it because I do not have... money?”
Money. Was that the word? He looks back, away from Aspara and to where more coins are being exchanged. Even if he had them, he does not understand it. He cannot count. Neither does Leonidas know what the larger or smaller coins mean. Shame floods him. Too embarrassed to tell her, regretting ever thinking it was a good idea to get her a necklace like that. He should have stuck to a wild flower one, strung an assortment together - replaced it each time when her flowers grew old and withered.
With a huff Leonidas turns toward the stall upon which her necklace had lain, “Come on.” And when they are close he hangs back, ears twitching, unsure, cautious. He does not take a step further but looks down at her expectantly. He would follow her into the Underworld, but he was not going to make returning his gift easy.
Oh, he was so naive! In some ways I was reluctant to tell him, to share with him the silly laws and rules of civilization. It would be like clipping the wings of a beautiful bird. But we were in the city, and rules were the only thing that kept society intact. If there weren’t laws, or at least collective morals, everything would collapse-- right?
I sighed. “It wasn’t yours to give, Leonidas.” I was almost grateful for a reason to be at odds with him. I didn’t like the feeling of fondness softening my brain, dulling my wits. It bored holes in my heart and I was quite sure if I let it continue, he would one day break me.
I didn’t want to be kept or cherished, and nobody wants to be broken-- to hell with what the poets sing of beauty in the shattered pieces. But I was not infallible, I wanted to be wanted. Sometimes I craved tenderness so much that it scared me… so much that I ran from it.
I huffed as he leaned in to me, and I flinched as he told me I was beautiful. “You don’t really know me,” I said as I drew away. My words wavered; I blushed so furiously it ran all the way through my body and into my voice. Nobody had ever spoken to me that way, nobody had ever touched me like that. It was at once thrilling and terrifying. I think I would rather fight a monster than fumble through the strange dance of courtship, at least then I would know what to do.
I did not let myself tell him he was beautiful too, like autumn, all polished walnut and golden leaves. Like the stags I had seen bounding through the forest with surreal grace, leaping silently as though the laws of nature, humbled, had granted them an exception. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth so that my thoughts would stay put. “You think too much,” someone had told me once, teasingly, trying to prod a reaction from me. I just bared me teeth in a mockery of a smile, and I thought to myself: most people don’t think enough.
“Yes, you would need money to buy this necklace. But it’s also… things like this are pretty, but they don’t really matter. You know? Anyway, I don’t need… trinkets and things.” Just time and space, I almost added, but at the time I didn’t know what exactly that meant. It was just a thought that came to me, and only later was I able to unpack the thought.
In the stories, when women are compared to flowers (as they so often are) it is always the blossom itself, the petals either young and fresh like dewey skin or wilted and paper-thin with time, each with its own beguiling smell. But there were no odes that I had found about roots or leaves or stems; the foundation upon which soft, pretty things bloom and die again and again.
Time and space, water and soil and sunlight is what makes flowers bloom.
Of course, I was much grander than a flower- but that’s beside the point. Draw back and stand tall, Leonidas. Set your brow and grit your teeth, keep your distance; these things will draw me in more than soft touches or pretty silver chains ever could. These things I will love you for long after we have grown old and withered, brittle and bent like stalks of corn.
Finally he bent to my will, and I almost felt sorry for it. Like a wounded puppy he followed me through the markets and to the stall with the pretty necklaces. It is okay that he was reluctant to take those final few steps. I was not his mother, trying to shame him into learning some lesson in morality- I simply wanted to return the jewelry to its rightful owner. I went forward with the necklace, greeting the merchant with a warm “Hi there!” I knew exactly when and where to use my youth to my advantage, the shopkeep would likely see me as younger than I was, a sweet little girl. When we met eyes, I saw the flare of recognition in his gaze. For once I was grateful that someone knew who I was.
“I was walking with my friend here,” I gestured to Leonidas, who looked as noble and out of place as a rare woodland creature might. “And we found this on the ground. It’s yours, right?” I extended the lovely necklace and the stallion’s eyes widened in delight. He took back his creation with an eruption of gratitude and some tears that were hastily blinked away. It brought me joy, despite the true circumstances by which he had parted with his creation, and I smiled at him pure and bright. I glanced to Leonidas, hoping (though doubting) he might also take some satisfaction in the reunion even though he was a wildling, raised alone and far being the city walls.
I have always believed that we are all born with the natural inclination to take pleasure in the joy of others, even if it might come at our own expense.
some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
It is easy for a boy who has lived his life alone to be in control of nearly everything around him. It is hard for him then to be so utterly out of control. Stood within the busy street, uncomfortable already, here only for a girl who now chides him, it is easy for him to feel so utterly powerless.
You don’t know me, she says and, oh, those words strike him like lightning. They set his nerves alight, electricity coursing through his veins. He thinks she is one of only 2 he does know. And if he does not know her, then does he know anyone at all?
Oh, Apsara, you shut him back in his woodland with such a comment. You build him a solitary cage of vines and thorns. You place him back in that lonely, quiet place he grew up where he forgot his family, his twin. He snaps his head away, as if struck. Leonidas knows nothing of love, attraction or hormones. He does not know that she is as conflicted as he. The boy is as wild as a doe, understanding only the language of survival, learning only how to interact with the things that keep him alive. These are the things he understands, not girls who push him one moment, smile at him others and then tell him he does not know her.
Worst of all is the fluctuating frustration that blooms like a black rose within his belly. It grows fast as bamboo and sets its thorns painfully into the weakest parts of himself. He turns from her, as if her observation was a sentence. It feels like one, to him, to a boy who lives alone.
She tells him she does not need what he offers. If Leonidas were not so hurt, if he was not bubbling with an adolescent boy’s rage, he might have realised her meaning. He would have preferred to give her something different anyway - a flower of the wood, not something unyielding and cold like the metal of the necklace. Oh, if only he could throw it away, let it sink to the bottom of the sea! Be rid of the horrible thing!
His ears are upon his skull, his neck arched, thick muscles bulging with adulthood that brims within him. But the way he watches her, the way he moves beside her, is suddenly leonine with a teenaged ire.
Leonidas feels like a string pulled tight, so tight it stretches his skin taught. It pulls on him, he feels like he might snap. All around him the Court reminds him how loud, how garish everything is. It reminds him of all the things he does not understand like laughter, like love.
And then, oh and then, as he stands tall and proud and still as a statue of a stag, Apsara smiles. She smiles bright and joyful for the man she gives her necklace back to smiles too. The man is overjoyed, tears glisten upon his cheeks. And Leonidas is retreating, his chin drawing into his chest, his mane falling across his eyes, a barrier, a gesture so much like the mother he barely knows anymore. Their exchange, Apsara and the merchant’s, is the press of a blade upon the string that pulls leonidas so tight. It nicks the smallest cut into the taught string of him, but he snaps.
Leonidas shatters like water tumbling from a waterfall (he has been falling since she took her necklace from about her throat) and striking the rocks below. He hates that he does not understand why. Loathes that he tried to fit in to society and only failed. Despises that this whole exchange is about money and people and things he cannot begin to comprehend.
The boy shatters upon the stones of her rejection - of the necklace, of his touch (touch which she has taught him to yearn). His lips peel back from white teeth and he snarls lupine and savage. Like he had the day his uncle caught him stealing apples from trees. Leonidas is so many things that the wilds birth - deer and wolves, insects that sting and birds gentle and beautiful.
He looks away from the markets, out, longingly, toward where he knows the wilderness lies, beyond the streets, the stalls, the crowds. He is a wild thing caught in the snare of a girl’s beauty, but overwhelmed, broken by the things he does not understand about girls; about this girl. Leonidas is broken by the challenges of adolescence and a society he is only just beginning to realise wishes to make him conform. But he is not made to obey anything at all.
His wings snap out with all the abruptness of unfurling sails caught in a galloping wind. The crowd scatters around him, startled away from his gleaming gold that darkens swiftly to bronze with his gathering frustration, Then, like a feral creature suddenly freed from bondage, he takes flight, little more than a wild eagle loosed of its capturing chain.
The boy is fast as he leaves her with the necklace and the merchant. He seeks the quiet solitude of Novus’ outer reaches. He does not rest until he is immersed back into reclusiveness, no matter its pain. Loneliness he has come to understand, but not unicorn girls who smile at him, some soft, some sharp as blades, some who wish to touch him, only to bring him his death and others who push and shove and show him all the ways he does not understand them or their smelly cities.
Sometimes it seems my childhood is a long string of things I shouldn’t have said or done or thought. Growing up is hard, and painful, and I know now we learn the most from our mistakes-- but it seemed unfair, somehow, that I would make so many.
But there were so many girls in me, each battling for dominance. There was the unicorn, from whose body would one day grow dahlias and lavender, there was the warrior who could cut down a man with a single fluid motion, there was the open-armed lover with the bleeding heart. And then there was the sea, there was always the sea, with its primordial darkness, calling me home. Not the way it called my sister, but- a summoning song all the same.
I whirled around as I felt the woosh of air and dust rush past me, but even before I turned to look I knew he was gone. “Leo?!” It was the first time I had called him anything short of his full name. I ran out into the middle of the cobbled street, chasing his shadow. In the sunlight above me, surrounded by blue sky, he looked like nothing I had ever seen. The tines of his antlers, which once tap-tapped against my horn and echoed into my bones, seemed carved just right to pierce the clouds, and the golden underside of his wings greedily drank up the sunlight.
I did not yell at him to come back. I was too proud or too angry-- likely both. I just stood there, teeth gritted, watching his dark browns and burnished golds fade into the forest hues of the Armas. I had never been left like that, and it stung more than I cared to admit. The worst part was the way I second-guessed my every action that had led up to that point. I suppose I had been too pushy... But the unicorn in me said no, I had not pushed enough.
“Stupid boy,” I huffed.
Stupid, if he thought he could hide from me in my own mountain.
art by Ralli
@Leonidas thank you for another great thread <3
